


a cautionary heart

by Debate



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (more turn of the century but its westoros so historical accuracy doesnt matter), Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Spouses to Lovers, Marriage of Convenience, Mixed Signals, POV Gendry Waters, Period-Typical Sexism, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Weddings, aristocrat!arya, new money!gendry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28279503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: Gendry Waters believed he had found a true friend in Miss Arya Stark. Perhaps the only high-class lady he liked, she helped him navigate society after a series of successes found him quite well-to-do. But financial misfortune has fallen on the Stark family, and Arya, along with her mother and siblings, faces destitution. Desperate to help his friend, he proposes marriage between them, but with contrasting personal and societal expectations, they might yet struggle to reach a happy union.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 67
Kudos: 176





	1. A Proposal

A train was not a silent place by nature, the rattle of the car and the pump of the engine were noisier companions than other travelers could hope to be, yet Gendry felt smothered by silence as the train sped him North. Arya sat beside him. The usual gleam of playful boldness about her countenance and her quick-witted turn of speech were replaced that morning with a stiff, high back. Not a word had passed between them since the conductor collected their tickets.

He wished for something to occupy him, but the rain outside fogged the windows and prevented him from perusing the countryside. He might have reread some of the paper, but Arya had snagged it after he finished and now it served as a reason for the silence to remain thick between them.

Water ran in diagonal stripes across the windowpane and he attempted to content himself by watching it in bored fascination. Each moment brought him further North than he had ever been, but he saw none of it. For at least the fifth minute in a row he swallowed a sigh, refusing to appear at all petulant. When he had imagined this moment the night before it had been full of conversation between himself and Arya, the lively, friendly sort that should accompany any two people so newly engaged. For although the arrangement and his proposal had been far from romantic, he had assumed that there would be a ready companionship between him and Miss Stark, one that would build upon the fondness that was already present in their friendship. Now he questioned if there had ever been any affection between them, or if it had all been some concoction of his own imagination, as their nearing nuptials seemed instead to be cause for a sudden aloofness.

Arya turned the page of the paper, refusing, as she had been for the past half hour, to look at him, even though she must have felt his own gaze upon her.

Frustrated with the silence, and especially about being ignored, he cleared his throat and brought up a ready topic of conversation, one with no connection to the events that would unfold in the next week.

“Did you read the story about the train crash near Saltpans? Quite tragic.”

“I don’t see why you’d like to talk about train crashes when we’re riding one,” she replied. There wasn’t anything particularly harsh or cold in her tone, but her refusal, still, to look at him spoke louder volumes.

“Well, as long as I’ve known you, you have not shied away from stories of misfortune, no matter how gory the details or awkward the context.”

A dozen of those conversations came easily to mind, instances where her voice had shined with righteousness. Now she spoke now in a low, self-conscious tone. 

“I suppose I’m not much in the mood for conversation,” she admitted, folding the paper over in her lap and looking out the window before realizing there was nothing to see and her attention must at last turn to him. He admired her honesty even as her words stung.

“Are you angry with me?” He asked. His bluntness was an old habit, but he preferred it to the passively snide comments of polite society. He supposed it would not do to conceal his tendencies from his future wife.

“No,” she said, “I really am very grateful to you Mr. Waters.” She bit her lip then, and it was a long minute before she spoke again. “I suppose I am angry with the situation. And concerned for my family. I apologize if that my anger was unjustly transferred to you.”

He nodded in mute acceptance of her apology. Her words were fair, and yet his skin felt pricked, as if with a splinter he could not get out. With stiff fingers he loosened the knot of his cravat.

Arya was bending the corners of the paper with an undue concentration. Her fingers were bare, he hadn’t even bought her a ring yet, but then she might not want one, engraved with romantic notions as they were. Self-doubt rose thick up his throat as he remembered the promises he made to her not two days prior.

* * *

A dinner party hosted by the richer Lannister cousins was in concept alone enough to bitter Gendry’s mood. Mott had made him attend, as the Lannisters were some of their most important investors, and the loans of the workshop were handled through their bank. The one bright spot in the dreaded affair was that Miss Stark would be there. She had told him as much when they met for lunch along with some of her library friends the Tuesday before, and she had laughed when he said he would be glad to suffer through it with her. And suffer they would.

Which was a shame, as Gendry had come to enjoy dinner parties, so long as he could choose the company. Having the younger Seaworth brothers over, along with his cousin and Arya, made for enjoyable conversation and kept the loneliness that sometimes crept up on him at bay. On the other hand, invitations from business associates that he was forced to accept made him feel stupid and little. They spoke of people he did not know, philosophies he did not understand, all while bragging and dealing out insults under their breath.

He arrived at Dorna and Kevan Lannister’s townhouse as late as he could manage without being rude. The cocktail hour was well underway in the drawing room. After handing off his coat and hat to the waiting butler, he thrust his hands deep in his pockets, sighed indulgently through his nose, and joined the fray.

Arya was a woman of middling height, although in their current company she’d qualify as quite short. Still, he picked her out of the crowd immediately. She had the aristocratic features one would expect of a Stark, a long face, a straight, sharp nose, and attentive grey eyes. Her hair was pinned back in loose curls, their rich brown matching the color of her dress. Gendry was not attuned to the current styles, and so could not speak to her sense of fashion, but her evening dress had a clean, simple cut, made of a fabric that glimmered in the light of the sconces that lined the room.

He set a straight path for her, but he was barely through the threshold before there was a hand at his elbow, interrupting his approach. Jerking his arm away from the touch, he turned to see Lancel Lannister’s slim grin.

“Yes?” He asked, allowing his feet to shift under him to demonstrate his desire to leave.

“Well,” Lancel said, and Gendry just knew he’d be hard pressed to get the man to shut up. “I hear you’re an inventor, and I have some bang up ideas I’d like your opinion on.”

“I thought I might get a drink first,” Gendry said. He’d need it.

“Oh, of course, of course,” he said, but then continued on into a spiel about shelf-shining shoes without a clue as to how to implement the idea.

With a heavier pour of gin than his normal in hand, he began to circle the room, pretending to admire the marble busts and great bouquets, as it was easier to feign interest in them than in the conversation Lancel was making. He clung to Gendry like mud on the bottom of his shoe despite the rushed pace of his steps and clear effort to dislodge him.

Finally he caught Arya’s eye, and she smiled just for him, even when she was standing in a little circle with two gentlemen he did not know. He raised his glass to her in a makeshift greeting and felt a sense of ease and satisfaction run through him as she did the same in response.

Of course his luck was not good enough to allow him to make his way over to her without interruption. This time it was by the host of the dinner, who he could not justly brush off.

Gendry thanked him for the invitation and answered succinctly to the questions made after his health (good), social calendar (mostly empty), and opinion on the weather (colder than usual for a King’s Landing winter). Although it was evident from Kevan’s quick nods that the man wanted to conclude with the banalities and carry on with business. Gendry repeated the numbers and phrases that Mott had beat into his head before he left Friday evening, and let his natural frugalness fill in any gaps.

“Well,” Kevan said after a beat. Gendry hadn’t made him happy, but that hadn’t been the goal. “Maybe we’ll talk more after dinner, then. I have a nice brandy, you’ll like it.”

“Sure,” Gendry said, hiding his grimace in a sip of gin. He was struggling to find something benign to discuss, but was interrupted by a single voice rising over the din.

“Perhaps they’re unionizing because you force them to work ten-hour days in caves so thick with dust they can hardly breathe, with the constant threat of being trapped or crushed literally hanging over their heads,” Arya said, her assertive voice making the crystal in the chandelier ring. The room quieted, but if Arya felt the crowd of eyes resting on her, she did not show it, continuing on, “You can offer widows a nice sum and sponsor elegant funerals but that doesn’t stop men from dying under your watch. I honestly hope they strike till your coffers weep.”

A beat of silence sat in the room even as Gendry’s mouth curled in an open-mouthed smile.

“There’s no need to be so shrill,” Dorna Lannister condemned her. It was clearly not the sort of lively conversation the hostess had imagined for her party. Propriety reigned over these sorts of people, they did not know how to respond to brashness or honesty. Let alone in so public a venue. The two men who had been talking to her drifted slowly away, as if embarrassed to be seen beside her. To Gendry it seemed counterintuitive, people should be flocking to her side after that speech, but he was the only one.

“Miss Stark, I—that was a great speech.”

She shrugged, but he thought she might have been at least a little touched with the praise.

“I’m too easily frustrated,” she said, with confident self-awareness. On others it might have been a flaw, but Arya’s anger made her shine. “The only reason I didn’t feign a terrible illness tonight was because I knew you’d be here.” His chest expanded. “Couldn’t very well leave you to the lions.”

“I appreciate it. Although I suspect that headache will make its appearance tomorrow morning.”

“That would just be the gin,” Arya quipped. He smiled, admiring her daring wit. “I will just have to suffer through it in the morning for your company tonight.”

His pulse galloped, and he took a step closer to her, even if he didn’t have the excuse of a jostling crowd or being unable to hear her.

“How was the library this week?”

“Oh, well.” She lowered her voice than, taking him in her confidence as she leaned ever so slightly towards him. “It can be quite dull. I feel bad for thinking that way, because I’m so lucky to have the job, but there’s nothing creative or engaging about it.”

Gendry nodded in sympathy, his own job was quite the opposite, but he remembered the monotony of factory work, and while it had kept him fed, it hadn’t been very fulfilling.

“Well I’m sure you’re do for a promotion any month now, then you’ll be able to do proper research. You’re far too clever to be left only doing the shelving.”

Arya was just about the smartest person he knew. She’d had a proper governess growing up, and had been able to eavesdrop on the lessons her brothers had gotten from language and science tutors. Though those things weren’t what made Arya so ingenious in Gendry’s mind. Unlike the majority of her learned peers, Arya had an empathetic curiosity. She liked learning about new people and read books from far off places.

The day they had met, when Arya had come to the workshop on some errand from Alysanne College’s library, she had peppered him with questions that had at first annoyed him. He had answered though, and Arya had listened, her responses always considerate. It was that consideration that had pressed him to ask if she would like to develop their acquaintance. Certainly one of his better ideas of the past year.

“We shall see,” Arya said, not sounding very convinced. Gendry was not one for displays of empty optimism, he genuinely believed Arya’s fortunes in her employment would soon improve.

“And if not I’m sure you’ll know who to harass to get your due recognition.”

Arya laughed, her face taking on the gentle flush it always did when her smile grew big enough. For a moment he was once again forced to consider if it would be one of his better ideas to ask Arya Stark to court him.

The bell rang for dinner, and Gendry huffed at the interruption. His hopes that they might be seated beside each other were swiftly dashed. He focused his attentions on the soup course, which was annoyingly delicious, and responded to Dorna Lannister’s inquiries into his social life with huffs and monosyllables. At least a dozen glances in Arya’s direction were stolen during the course, and it was that keen sense he had of her that ensured he saw what happened next.

The dishes were carried away by a veritable army of maids when the butler slipped in among them, whispered into Arya’s ear, and handed her a telegram. She read it under the table, then stood in a rush and hurried out of the dining room, the deep brown of her dress blending in with the blacks and greys worn by the women under the Lannister’s employ.

Gendry stretched his neck to watch her departure. In private, or more intimate settings, Arya was much freer with her moods and emotions. It was uncharacteristic of her to act so unreservedly at a Lannister dinner, an environment that bordered on hostile.

In anxious impatience, Gendry picked at the dirt under his fingernails. Several dozen times he had been told it was a habit unbecoming of a gentleman. He did not care, as it was the only thing that soothed his nerves as the room cleared and Arya still had yet to reappear.

Five or so minutes had passed, the entrée had arrived, and still she had yet to return. Most of their dinner companions seemed not to have noticed her extended leave. Perhaps they had forgotten her already.

When the short fuse of his patience finally burned out, he excused himself in a gruff whisper that the person to his left hardly recognized.

He found her in the foyer, frantically searching through the coat closet. Her hair, which had not been perfectly coifed to begin with, was now even further in disarray. There was pink in her cheeks too, the blotchy kind that came with extreme cold or anger, so different from the color a smile gave her.

“Miss Stark are you alright?”

“I can’t find my damn coat!”

She slammed the door to the coat closet. The noise echoed under the high ceiling of the Lannister town house and summoned a maid with distressed eyes.

“Find Miss Stark’s coat, please,” he said, and she went off like a dart. Arya pressed a hand to her mouth, her gaze following where the maid had run up the stairs, as if in sudden embarrassment at her own behavior. He longed to touch her, to place a gentle hand on her shoulder, but she was a lady of high class and he could not. Instead he kept his voice low and his face soft. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Arya bit her lip. Her hand shook. She still held the telegram, crumpled to near illegibility. For a moment she looked at her hands in consideration and, saying nothing, she handed it to him. It turned out not to be hard to read at all.

YOUR BROTHER HAS RUINED US. COME HOME. - MOTHER

Questions piled on his tongue, each of them hazardous and bitter. But his mouth hadn’t the opportunity to form words before Arya explained.

“We have no money,” she whispered. “Winterfell stopped having tenants fifty years ago. My grandfather had to sell the land, we have no source of income. My mother and sister are both widows, and Bran’s doctor bills... Robb swore—Robb swore that his venture would provide for them, but now…”

She shook her head, and inhaled a thick, watery breath. Gendry had thought he knew her quite well, but never had she so much as implied that the Starks might be wanting for a few pennies. It must have been a closely guarded secret. He found himself at a loss, confounded by the admission.

“Your coat, Miss.” It was the maid retuned. “Dinner’s been served Mr. Waters.”

“Right,” he said, knowing he was being rude as he dismissed the maid with a nod, and not caring much. How could the Starks, a noble line stretching back literal millennia, have no money, yet he, a bastard nobody from Fleabottom, could make his fortune in less than a year? He watched as Arya slipped her coat on, her movements stiff and jerky and marked by distress, and he was struck suddenly with the notion that he could help her.

“Would you take a loan?”

She paused for a moment, bowed her head, and bit her lip.

“You’re really too kind, but my family has already accrued too many debts, I couldn’t add to the burden. I have to go home.”

He was about to insist, to declare that he wouldn’t charge her interest, that she could pay him back in intervals, but her big grey eyes rose to meet his and he knew suddenly that she was much braver than him, perhaps more stubborn too. There was a great deal of pride in the set of her shoulders and he knew any further offer would only insult her.

She sighed and buttoned her coat. His heart ticked, announcing the scarce minutes he had left with her. And as much as he mourned for the misfortunes of her family, a selfish part of him sorrowed too, at the loss of her from his company. Taking strength from her own bravery, he was bold and took her left hand in his. Of course, she did not wear gloves, even in winter, and the feel of her skin was electrifying and heartening all at once.

“Would you marry me?”

He had shocked her, but only a bit more than he had shocked himself. Although he had always presumed he would marry, even in the days when he hadn’t two coppers to rub together, it had always been a notion that felt for the far-off future. Even when he had grown to a marriageable age, and accrued his wealth to become, at first a decent, and then a desirable prospect, the practical thought of it had only occurred to him just now.

“Mr. Waters—”

“Please Miss Stark, you must know that I consider you a dear friend, that I’m quite fond of you, as I’ve come to believe you are of me. If our marriage could help you, and I know it could, then why shouldn’t we marry?”

Arya’s fingers curled around his own, with such strength that her grip hurt, but it didn’t seem as if she was even aware of it. Her eyes looked past him. Uncertainty was fresh in the air. Gendry refused to interrupt the thoughts circling through Arya’s mind, afraid that if he so much as sighed too deeply she would flinch away from him. 

Chatter from the dining room drifted past, and yet the room seemed silent as Gendry’s heart second-guessed its every beat.

“Yes.”

With a placid solemnity, Arya Stark nodded her head and promised to become his wife.


	2. A Series of Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Arya arrive in the North to meet her family and prepare for their wedding.

Theirs would be a brief engagement.

The train arrived in Winter Town just as the sun was setting, casting long shadows on the fields of untouched snow and the newly shoveled streets. With luggage in hand, Gendry followed Arya through the streets of her hometown. It was a short distance to her childhood home, impossible to miss as it cut across the horizon.

He hoped her family wasn’t quite so imposing.

Winterfell was a castle. A real and proper castle, crafted with thick stone to make sprawling halls and tall ramparts. The southern facing wall was as long as a Flea Bottom block, and the population of a small town could easily live within its walls. All this for one family. He found it both amazing and so totally wasteful.

An impressive wooden gate that stood shut to them, and Gendry thought that even the North’s brutal winds would be daunted by the stolid majesty. Arya seemed phased not at all. Even as Gendry’s neck craned up, trying to guess at the height of the walls, she fiddled with a key ring beside him before taking him by the elbow so that they might enter through a normally sized door set into the wall.

A raven cawed and took flight as they walked across the empty courtyard. Had Arya sent a message to tell her family when to expect them? He rearranged his grip on the handle of his trunk and doubted it.

They were barely inside before Arya instructed him to leave his trunk alongside hers in the corridor before she knocked briskly on a rounded door and opened it without appeal. It was clearly a study, with the musty smell of paper in the air and tall, though sparse, inset bookshelves on the left wall. A desk took the place of prominence in the room’s center, and it was there where Arya’s mother sat, a pen still in hand.

Mrs. Stark shared little resemblance with her daughter, her eyes a keen blue and her hair the color of sandstone. When she stood, she demonstrated an immediate elegance about her and a posture that suggested a life void of hard labor. The lines in her face seemed newly acquired and the fluttering of her hands only further indicated a crisis of her nerves.

The smile that sprung at the sight of her daughter was genuine and did not carry her stresses. She was quick to embrace Arya, kiss her cheeks, and smooth her hair with a motherly affection. It made Gendry’s heart ache for a feeling he had, until now, long since forgotten.

“Oh I’m so glad you’re here, darling. But you should have said! I would’ve sent Sansa down to the station to collect you. Oh but I suppose that hardly matters, just that we’re all together again, I’ll call everyone down to tea, it will—” She noticed him at last. “And who is this?”

Arya took her mother’s hands in her own. She smiled, although it was easy to see that it was forced.

“This is Mr. Gendry Waters. My fiancé.”

“ _Fiancé?!”_ Mrs. Stark almost yelped. She brought a hand to her mouth near instantly, clearly embarrassed by her abruptness. Not wanting to cause her undue awkwardness on their first meeting, Gendry extended his hand.

“Yes, Mrs. Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you. _”_ Mrs. Stark offered her hand in that sort of delicate way women did, her face a contortion deciding between delight, anger, and sheer shock.

“Well I-I think that it would probably be better if you freshened up before tea, what with you having traveled all day. I’ll have someone…Arya would you show your— would you show Mr. Waters to an appropriate guest room? You’ll excuse me if the sheets aren’t the freshest.”

He assured her that it was all perfectly understandable and let himself be led from the room.

“I think that went rather well,” he said as they made their way through a long hall. The passage was quite dreary; the bare stone walls seemed almost endless and made longer by the echoing click of their footsteps. When Arya did not respond, he hastened his pace so that he might stand abreast with her, and found a deep furrow in her brow. Her eyes darted about the place as if it were also her first time within the sprawling walls.

“Is something wrong?”

“The tapestries, the paintings, all the—all the furniture,” she muttered. “They’re gone.”

She halted abruptly and reached out to touch one of the bare stone. With a flinch and a shudder she wrenched her hand away before taking off at a run. It took Gendry a moment to comprehend the action, but once he did, he set off after her. The weight of both their suitcases slowed him, and he suspected that Arya’s speed would have outmatched him regardless. She turned a corner, and when Gendry caught up, he was met with the sight of a door being flung open.

It was a bedroom. Arya’s old bedroom he gathered, from the familiarity with which she moved about it. Yet it was oddly bare for the bedroom of a young girl, no toys or trinkets, or even extra blankets at the end of the bed. Gendry stood just outside the threshold, feeling an invader as Arya stood from kneeling to look below the bed before rummaging through an armoire with ferocious and desperate strength.

A strength that seemed to leave her all at once as she collapsed back onto the stiffly made bed. With the trepidation of awaking in the real world after a vivid dream, Gendry entered the room and sat down beside her.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s a girlish concern,” she breathed, blinking quite fiercely to scare off tears.

“Clearly not.”

Her voice was wet when she next spoke, and he wanted to hold her hand or stroke her hair, and would have had he not thought that she would only become more distressed by his touch.

“Needle is gone,” she breathed with a thick voice. “My sword. It’s been passed down between Stark daughters for as long as anyone can remember.” She sucked in a mighty breath, lifting her head from her hand. “Jon gave it to me. It was his mother’s, Aunt Lyanna’s, and he could have given it to his own daughter when he had one, but he gave it to me instead. And now it’s gone.”

Gendry’s tongue was thick in his mouth and he didn’t know what to say. He’d never had a family heirloom, that sort of sentimentality was foreign to him. A platitude sat on his tongue, but it went unspoken, for Arya had risen with a shake of her head.

“I’ll show you to your room. It’s just two doors down.”

He followed her instinctively but was not so quick to forget her moment of distress. Arya seemed eager and able to shake off any echo of vulnerability, but Gendry couldn’t help but think that it was not for the best.

“Miss Stark,” he said as she held the door for his room open for him, her eyes flittering towards it in a way that told him she didn’t want to linger. “You know if you tell me what’s bothering you, I might be able to help.”

“You’re helping enough as it is,” she said, and stepped aside so that he was forced to replace her in order to catch the door. “I’ll come collect you for tea in half an hour.”

She left him alone in a frugal room of a sprawling castle, wondering what he could have possibly done wrong.

* * *

Tea was served in a room Arya called a solar, a sort of antechamber to a grander bedroom. It still had some indulgence to it; unlike most other rooms he had seen thus far. A rich rug laid under the smaller dining room table, and broad armchairs that begged to be sat upon were placed in the corners, but Arya’s mother and siblings rose when they entered, excepting the brother who sat in a wheeled chair. 

Brandon Stark was older than he imagined, at least twenty, with a rounder face than Arya, but the same sort of inquisitiveness in his eyes. He had a strong handshake, but nothing in his manner suggested anything about how he might feel that Gendry was marrying his sister.

Arya’s sister Sansa came to greet him next. She was the image of her mother, although much more somber looking in her mourning blacks. She introduced herself as Miss Stark, giving him the distinct impression that her relationship with her late husband had some unsavoriness to it.

Rickon Stark was still a teenager, and the sibling Gendry had heard the least about from Arya. He gave Gendry a bland look, and went back to pulling at his necktie when he was confident enough that his mother wasn’t looking.

They sat down to tea with some awkwardness, passing around the pot and sugar in silence. Gendry was most curious as to where Arya’s eldest brother was, the who had squandered the last of the Stark fortune. He wasn’t forming a favorable opinion of him. A man who had bankrupted his mother and sisters and then ran off wasn’t someone he was too keen on respecting. But bringing up the family’s financial instability and insulting their brother and son on the first meeting would far too rude, even for him.

Luckily, the elder Miss Stark seemed very keen on manners, and began the conversation by asking after his business.

“I’m an inventor,” he explained, his eyes shifting between the three women at the table. “I recently had a, uh, quite a successful patent and was promoted to manager of Mott’s workshop in King’s Landing.” Gendry had the distinct impression that Arya had spent the intervening time since she left him explaining their situation to her mother, but the woman still watched and listened with a falcon’s precision.

“Do you work on steam engines?” Rickon asked, perking up a bit.

“Oh, no,” he said, sorry to disappoint the boy. “My most recent patent was for an automatic bolt riveter.”

There was the silence back again.

“It’s really impressive, actually,” Arya interjected, “It’s absolutely revolutionized the shipbuilding industry. Puts a lot less strain on the workers, and they’re less likely to go deaf then when they’d have to do everything with a hammer.”

Gendry’s mouth fell open. Her praise put a deep warmth in his chest, yet it was eclipsed by surprise. He’d never told Arya that. She sipped her tea quite intently, not looking at him at all. He leaned close to her, eager to ask how she knew all that, but Sansa interrupted again.

“So how did you two meet?”

“At his workshop,” Arya said. “I was running an errand for the library, we needed the building layout on record for a collection, and while I waited for his employer to find it, we struck up a conversation. It’s a really impressive place, the workshop, and I had a lot of questions. Not so often you find someone so…gracious in answering. We’ve been friends ever since.”

Gracious? Him? He remembered being quite annoyed at the beginning of their first meeting, something that Arya, with her keen perspicacity for others, would have surely noticed. Quite eager to compare her recollection of their first meeting with his own, he turned in his seat, only for Arya’s eyes to leap from his face to look at his hands instead. Her lips were planted firmly on the edge of her teacup.

Perhaps he should wait for a more private moment to ask such questions.

Bran had additional inquiries as to the nature of his work, and conversation came to the tea table easily after that. Yet despite the fact that he and Arya sat side-by-side, they exchanged more brief glances than they did words. 

Tea ended with little fanfare. Rickon excused himself once the biscuits were gone, and Bran wheeled himself out soon after, citing fatigue. Sansa began collecting the kitchenware and Gendry stood as he handed over his own cup and saucer.

“You’ll stay and talk to me for a little while, Mr. Waters?” Mrs. Stark said when the table was clear, and the tea tray piled high. He recognized this for what it was and nodded his acquiescence, sitting down once more, this time in one of those inviting armchairs as Mrs. Stark indicated. Arya offered him a quick glance as she left with his sister, although he didn’t quite know what to make of it. Reassurance, he decided, as the door clicked closed and he met the cool eyes of his future mother-in-law.

“I must be quite blunt with you Mr. Waters,” she began, folding her gloved hands in her lap, “It was a shock to learn of your engagement to my daughter. Today was the first I’d heard of you.”

That stung a bit. He wasn’t aware of how often Arya wrote to her family, but judging by the strength of her love for them, he would have thought it was quite frequent. Their friendship was worth a few sentences, at least in his eyes.

“Yes,” he agreed, then, trying to discern how much Arya had told her mother about the arrangement, he continued, “I rather think it was a shock for both of us as well.”

“Oh, it certainly was for Arya,” Mrs. Stark said, the statement accompanied by a sound cousin to a laugh. “You must know that she would have never accepted had circumstances not been how they are.”

His ears felt boxed with the weight of her words. It seemed both a confirmation and an explanation of Arya’s coldness. Gendry swallowed thickly.

“Well, I—I only offered because of the circumstances.” He nodded to himself. “It wasn’t as if we were in the throws of a serious courtship.”

A fire raged in the tall hearth on the right wall, just behind him, and he started sweating as the heat beat on him through his woolen waistcoat. Yet, Mrs. Stark’s sharp blue gaze seemed far hotter.

“So you realize how this marriage is of serious concern to me.”

“Concern?” His money would be enough to keep the Starks quite comfortable. With it they wouldn’t have to sell their ancestral home—as empty as it was, it seemed a distinct possibility. By all measures, Catelyn Stark should be overjoyed. “No, I do not.”

“Well then let me make myself very clear.” When their conversation had started, Mrs. Stark had been stiffly polite. Now winter’s harsh breath bit sharply in her tone. “My husband has been dead nine years. My son Robb is off at Pyke trying to reclaim a loan from that rake he calls a friend. My daughter is a widow before her twenty-fifth year, her prospects ruined by her lying, cheating, spendthrift husband. My younger sons stand to inherit nothing, and I will not stake what’s left of the Stark’s good name, let alone my daughter’s happiness, on the ambitions of an up-jumped bastard.” 

His hands curled into fists. So she’d noticed that. He’d hoped, with the Starks being of the North, that she wouldn’t be familiar with what it meant to be labelled as a Waters or a Hill, but it was foolish to assume as much from a woman as well-bred as her. His jaw tightened as he tried to form a proper response.

“I will admit, Mrs. Stark,” he began slowly, “that I have little knowledge of how marriage agreements or dowries or any of that nonsense works with you noble people.” He tried for politeness, but her accusation curdled the sense of worth he held inside him. His intensity matched her own. “I’m going to marry Arya because she’s been a good friend to me for the past year and I don’t want to see her suffer. I will provide for her as her husband as I will for you in turn. I don’t care about titles, I don’t care about this castle, and the fact I was born a bastard has nothing to do with this.”

He stood, intending to leave. The wedding would be within the week and after that he and Arya would return to King’s Landing. He could live with his mother-in-law’s dislike, he knew nothing she could say would change either his or Arya’s mind; they were both too stubborn for that.

“Wait.”

He turned back without meaning to. The reprimand was gone from her tone. She stood too, and tucked her hands behind her back. For the first time since their meeting she looked at him as an equal rather than an imposter. He waited.

“Do you invest?” Mrs. Stark pressed, “In stocks or bonds?”

“Yes, ma’am. I can’t see I have a very good sense of it myself, but my solicitor, Mr. Seaworth, handles those affairs for me. He’s a good friend.”

“You let another man handle your money?” Mrs. Stark said, and Gendry realized he had made some grave error.

“Just the uh, stocks and bonds. I live below my means, so I have…considerable savings.” He thought it wise not to mention his savings style was of an under-the-mattress variety. Mrs. Stark would not understand his distrust of banks.

His response did not seem to satisfy her completely, but she pursed her lips and let herself take a step closer to him.

“You understand that I ask difficult questions because I want what’s best for Arya. I’ve always wanted my daughters to marry men with good names. Men from good families.” His bastard name was not so easily forgiven, it would seem. Gendry swallowed a sigh; it was an old slight, one he was well-accustomed to bearing. “But Arya told me about your proposal, and she claims that you are a very generous and good-hearted man. I will have to take her word for it. My family will be in your debt.”

It was hardly a ringing endorsement, but Gendry found ease of mind in it regardless.

“If I could be so bold,” he said in a rush, “I will be your family. So there would be no debt.”

Catelyn Stark smiled then. A small smile, interrupted by a quivering lip.

“I think my Ned would have liked you very much.”

A compliment he did not know how to receive.

“I would hope so.”

“Alright then,” Mrs. Stark said, a sliver of light in her voice. She brushed off her skirt and opened the door for him. “So the wedding,” she said, “how do you feel about Friday at midnight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so tensions are developing...  
> I love Catelyn a lot and would love your thoughts on her and Gendry's chat, I doubt she will be adding any more conflict, but it would be uncharacteristic of her not to have some objections.   
> Gendry and I were a little harsh on Robb, but I think understandably so.   
> Don't expect quick updates like this all the time, but I wanted to get this out there today, happy new year!


	3. A Wedding

On the morning of his wedding day, Gendry woke before the sun had risen. Nerves had banished sleep, and his eyes had not opened before his mind was assaulted by thoughts.

The rest of his life was an awfully long time.

Marriage precluded certain things, like intimacy and children, neither of which he had discussed with Arya.

It became uncomfortable to lie still in his bed, so he rose and dressed, determined to seek out breakfast for himself. All people were anxious on their wedding day, he was sure, no point in dwelling on it.

The Starks’ last remaining servant, a woman they all familiarly referred to as Old Nan, worked as their cook with Sansa’s assistance, but even she was not yet awake. He employed his own cook and housekeeper now, but he had lived for many years as a poor bachelor and was quite capable of boiling a couple eggs.

Old Nan shuffled in just as he was finished.

“Oh, thank you for getting the fire going for me, dearie,” she said. She went straight to filling the kettle. On any average morning he would start his day with tea, but he doubted he would find it settling at the moment. Not when eggs and toast were enough to make his stomach spin.

“Do you need a hand with anything else?” Gendry asked. She certainly looked like she did. Calling her ‘old’ was probably a compliment, she was very frail, and there was more than a small shake in her hands. Firing her would have been a cruelty—no one else would hire her—but making her work did not seem quite generous. At least she took her meals with the family, and no one batted an eye at her falling asleep in her chair after supper.

“I couldn’t ask for a man to help with chores on his wedding day,” she said with a huff.

“I really wouldn’t mind,” he said. “It would clear my head. Don’t you have potatoes to peel?”

“If you want a clear head, go for a walk,” she said, brandishing a wooden spoon at him before pointing it at the door. His hands curled towards his body reflexively, he’d been rapped on the knuckles enough times in his childhood to fear old women with spoons.

“Alright then,” he said with a nod, meaning to take her advice. Perhaps Old Nan’s continued service to the house had nothing to do with Mrs. Stark’s cruelty or charity, but rather the woman’s own obstinance.

He stepped out into the Northern chill, glad to see the morning light coloring the world. With as leisurely a pace as he could manage without his blood freezing, he made to exit Winterfell, keeping the door unlocked behind him.

As he set off to town, he tugged on his gloves and shrugged the collar on his coat higher. If he had suspected he would be going out and about, he would have brought a cap. It was bad manners in the south, to go out without one, and it was pure stupidity in the North, but he was already halfway to town and didn’t want to turn around. It was early yet, he justified to himself, and he wasn’t likely to run into many people.

He was partially right in that assessment. While the streets were mostly empty, businesses were opening. Shopkeepers carted their wares into side doors, and he saw at least two women sweeping furiously through paned glass.

Figuring that it was his wedding day, and he was already in town, he decided to go to the barbershop for a shave. Not that he would ever tell anyone, but he was quite fond of those warm towels, and whatever sweet-smelling aftershave they patted into his face afterwards made him feel fresh and spry. He ought to look his best today. It was that line of thinking that made him stop to get his shoes shined afterwards.

His last stop was the town hall, to pick up the marriage license they had applied for earlier in the week. The notary at the front desk was groggy and slow moving, but perked up when Gendry announced his reason for being there.

“Oh well then congratulations to you, man,” he said, as he handed Gendry the envelope. “Just make sure you, your missus, and two witnesses sign and date that, then return it within a fortnight.”

Gendry nodded and tucked the envelope and its important document securely in his coat pocket. It was very easy to get married in the traditions of the North. You didn’t even need an officiant, let alone the waiting period or complicated pronouncements of a wedding held under the Seven. Until a century ago you didn’t even need witnesses, although they were necessary now for state records. No wonder there were so many stories of couples eloping North.

That thought caused him to stutter step on the last stair out of the town hall. Were he and Arya eloping? No, of course not, her family would be in attendance, and that was the exact opposite of what eloping usually entailed. But when they returned to King’s Landing it would certainly appear as if they had. The only people he had told about his wedding were Mr. Mott and Mr. Seaworth, and that had simply been done to account for his absence from work and to rearrange his finances, respectively. Neither of them was likely to say anything, but those awful society types would no doubt have a field day when he and Arya returned south arm in arm.

Nothing could be done about that, though. Neither his pride, nor Arya’s, would suffer from insults delivered by the mouths of people he did not respect.

He set off back for Winterfell. Everyone should be awake by now, and he did not want to cause undo fuss or accrue accusations of being a jilter if no one could find him. Despite his intentions of making off with haste, a bright display of bouquets in the window of a florist’s made him pause.

Either the salesman was particularly talented, or Gendry was becoming something of a romantic, for he left the shop with a purple carnation for his lapel, a potted orchid to thank Mrs. Stark for being a gracious hostess, and a crown of blue winter roses for Arya, which the shopkeeper insisted was the traditional Northern wedding flower.

It was a minor feat to carry them all on his own, but he managed to cart them all up to the solar, where he suspected everyone would be gathered, likely just finishing their breakfast.

Everyone save Catelyn was where he thought they’d be, but the atmosphere of the morning was quite different from any previous day that week. No one seemed to notice that he’d arrived, their attention was enraptured by another guest. A man who must have been a relative, for he looked remarkably like Arya, was speaking about snowfall in way that had the whole room in rapture. Was it her wayward brother?

He was the one who first noticed Gendry, and rather than standing to greet him, he simply sat for a long moment as the rest of the room followed his gaze and wished him good morning.

Sensing he would have to make the introduction himself, Gendry set down the orchid, to be given to Mrs. Stark later, and tucked the box with the flower crown under his left arm.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t met, I’m Gendry Waters.” 

The man finally rose, and shook his hand. “Jon Snow.”

Oh, Arya’s infamous cousin. Gendry should have known; he wore civilian clothes, but all—even the undershirt—were black, as befitting a man of the Night’s Watch.

“Good to meet you.” Gendry felt it was important to remember his manners under Jon’s assessing look. “Glad you could make it for the wedding.”

“Me too,” he said, glancing back at Arya.

“I wrote to him the Saturday before we left,” she interjected, looking at Gendry before her gaze leapt back to her dear cousin, “but I didn’t really think you’d get leave.”

In the past when Arya had talked about her family, Jon’s name was always the first off her lips. He was stationed up at the Wall, had been since he was a teenager, and despite being as dear to Arya as a brother, she had seen very little of him since he’d enlisted.

“Of course I would for you.” He smiled then, sitting back down. There were no chairs left for Gendry.

“Do you have pastries in that box?” Rickon interrupted, managing to change the tone of the room with deftness.

“No,” he said. He’d nearly forgotten the box in his arms, and he suddenly felt awkward presenting Arya with the flowers in front of all her siblings, but there was nothing to be done for it. “For you,” he murmured, handing the box over to Arya before taking a sizeable step back. “The florist said they were traditional, and…I thought they’d suit you.”

“Oh,” she said in a low murmur as she opened the lid. “They’re lovely. Thank you.” She gave him a full smile, and for the first time since he had awoken that morning he felt at ease. If only he and Arya had a chance or two to be alone before the ceremony. A proper conversation between them would surely put his jitters at ease, but they’d only been alone together for scant minutes for the entire week. Today would likely be no better; there weren’t any grand preparations to be made for the ceremony, but Arya’s sister and mother had spent the week fluttering about in a rush anyway and would probably claim her attention for most of the day.

So he savored this moment, smiling at her in return, and watching as she stroked one of the delicate petals. There were only a few more hours until they’d be married. Once they were joined, the concern for her family would be lifted. They would spend time together in private and smile at one another as much as they liked. 

Vaguely he heard Sansa chime her approval of his purchase, before she started in on a tangent about having some rose petals of her own that would be lovely for her sister’s bath, and they should really get the water for that started.

“It’s not for hours, Sansa! Jon’s just arrived, it can wait.” Arya’s objections were overrun with Jon’s promise to see her once she was dressed and Sansa’s surprising willpower.

With a prim raise of her eyebrows, she hauled her sister to her feet, ordered Rickon to clear out the breakfast dishes, reminded Bran to do a better job combing his hair, and took the orchid to deliver to her mother. Gendry couldn’t fathom how she knew who it was for.

“She likes things done a certain way,” Bran said when only he, Jon, and Gendry were left in the room. “You’re lucky that the engagement was such a surprise, otherwise there would have been much more fuss, even if we couldn’t afford it.”

“I don’t know,” Gendry mused, “Arya isn’t the extravagant sort. She would have protested more staunchly if she didn’t feel bad for springing this on everyone.”

Jon let out a soft laugh. “Not that our speculation matters,” he said, standing once more. “Things are how they are.”

Jon leveled him with a keen stare then. So it would seem he would not escape without another interrogation. 

He cleared his throat. “Indeed.”

“Which means that she’s marrying you today,” Jon carried on. Gendry thought he heard Bran sigh in exasperation, but his attention was too focused on the other man to say for sure.

“Yes.”

“It’s odd,” Jon mused, speaking less to him and more around him. “Even now, I can’t really imagine Arya married.”

Of course he couldn’t, the last time he had seen Arya in the flesh had been when she was still a young girl. It would be hard to bridge the distance in his mind so quickly. Gendry looked to Bran, her younger brother, expecting him to disagree with his cousin, but he was watching Jon pace, head tilted to the side, as if straining to hear whispers from the eaves.

“Nothing from what Arya’s told me of you would suggest you were anything other than friends.”

A weird pang reverberated in his ribcage. He felt glad that Arya had told someone in her family about him after all, but Jon’s wording still left the taste of regret on the roof of his mouth.

“That’s true,” he offered, trying to give reassurance to himself in the words. Although an observer of the past week might make an argument to the contrary, they were friends.

No one said anything for a minute. Jon still looked at him intensely, but his gaze was not piercing the way Catelyn’s had been, or even the way Arya’s often was. It was contemplative, almost sorrowful.

“Arya knows herself,” Jon said. “I trust her. And I trust you’ll be good to her.”

It was not a statement made for Gendry to agree with. Rather, a clear assertion of belief in a fact. Bran nodded in Gendry’s periphery.

Having entered the conversation expecting an interrogation, to leave the room without one left him feeling as if he had tripped over a step that was not there. 

* * *

Midnight weddings were preposterous, Gendry quickly concluded. Not only would it be significantly colder than it already was in the frozen North, but it also necessitated a harrowing amount of waiting.

After a soak in the tub that he considered quite extravagant, it took him no time at all to put on his best waistcoat, pin the carnation in his buttonhole, and ensure that his hair was in place. Both the day and the evening stretched out before him, filled only with taunting thoughts of the future. Nibbling on the scone that Old Nan included with his lunch tray helped none, and neither did catching up with his correspondence. It was uncomfortable to be granted with such leisure time.

He took to pacing, justifying to himself that it was for the sake of movement rather than a sign of nerves. He thought about ventilation systems in already constructed buildings, about steel supports in mine shafts. He rehearsed the vows he would need to speak later, brief though they were, and considered whether the tread on his shoes was growing too thin. But mostly he thought about Arya.

His mind shifted, ebbed into the future. They would break their fasts together and end the day eating dinner together. Arya, with her bushels of opinions, would have a good sense on what books should fill the study. Never again would he need to invent occasions to be blessed with her company. It all gave him a thrill.

Sometime in the afternoon there was a knock on his door. It was Rickon, standing in his doorway with impatience and a raised eyebrow that spoke of teenaged self-assurance. Bran trailed behind him.

“Would you like some company?”

Gendry was most comfortable when keeping his own company, but he could well admit that he was in need of it now. He stepped aside, to let the other men enter the room.

Rickon promptly opened the window before reaching into his coat and setting a box of cigars and an ashtray on the bedside table.

Gendry cast a suspicious eye.

“Aren’t you a bit young for that?”

“Clearly not,” Rickon said with a smirk, pulling out a matchbook. “You should thank me, we’re celebrating.”

Well, Gendry would not deny a young man his rebellion. He took the offered cigar, as did Bran. They seemed fine, had a rich spice about them that was quite different from cigarettes. He coughed on the first puff, but so did Rickon, so he felt no embarrassment. There was a minute or so of silence as they tapped off the ash and Rickon dragged over the tall trunk from the end of the bed to sit upon. Gendry remained standing as his future brothers-in-law made themselves comfortable. 

“So, do you have cold feet?” Rickon asked, slouching dramatically, and taking an exaggerated puff of his cigar in what Gendry figured was his own approximation of how he thought men smoked in society clubs.

“Doesn’t everyone have cold feet here?”

Bran let out a soft snort. “Not me.”

“Yes, Bran, very funny.” Rickon rolled his eyes. “I mean are you nervous to marry our sister?”

“No,” he lied. It did not seem prudent to vent his apprehensions to his bride’s brothers. “I don’t have anything to second guess.” Confidence returned to him in that statement. He had made up his mind a week ago in the Lannisters’ foyer. There was no one else he could imagine himself marrying, regardless of circumstances.

The brothers both nodded, and the three of them took a moment to exhale. Cigars did indeed seem good for the nerves. 

“We do appreciate what you’re doing,” Bran said after a moment. For some reason, the young man’s gratefulness made him twinge in discomfort.

“It’s no hassle,” he said. Perhaps it was because he had done this for Arya, he was sure these two men in his room were good people, but he did not know them. Helping them helped Arya. He was no altruist.

“Of course it is,” Bran insisted, but thankfully he pivoted. “I hope you and Arya are happy together.”

“We will be,” he said. It was uncharacteristic optimism, but there was no better day for it. “Although…” he began, a new thought coming to mind. “If this is out of line, feel free to tell me so. Do you know anything about the selling of the paintings and furniture and such?”

“Sold them,” Rickon said with a shrug. So he was not a sentimental type. “Anything that wasn’t used in our normal lives. Mum said it was either the things or Winterfell.”

Gendry nodded his sympathy. “Who bought it all?”

“Uh, do you remember, Bran? We all helped pack up so many things they all sort of blend together. The Mormonts in White Harbor bought quite a few things, the Flints some others, I think.”

“Most of it went to museums,” Bran finished. “Probably the best place for them in the end, they’ll be better preserved.”

Gendry’s thoughts splintered on tangents, only for him to miss the beginning of Bran’s description of the Winterfell of their youth. The conversation came easier as the brothers shared their reminisces. They were good, easy company, both similar to Arya in their own ways—Bran with his thoughtfulness and Rickon with his interjections and quick excitement. Their cigars burned to butts soon enough.

When Gendry moved to swing the window open wider it came as a surprise to see that the sun had set.

“Do either of you have the time?”

“Quarter to seven,” Bran informed him, tucking away his pocket watch just as quick as he had retrieved it.

“Suppose we should have dinner then?”

“Mum said we wouldn’t be sitting down for dinner. Don’t have any idea what they’re doing, Arya hates being fussed over,” Rickon said. Head tilted back in thought before it snapped down so he could look at Bran. “Kitchen raid?”

Bran smiled.

Soon enough they found themselves in the kitchen, eating mince pies and buttered golden potatoes that Old Nan seemed to have laid out in expectation of their visit. Gendry took his que from the brothers, unafraid to lick flakes of pastry off his fingers or help himself to a second helping of spuds. The good food did wonders to his mood and energy. He felt ready to stay up half the night, even after doing the washing up. 

Refusing to ask after the time or count down the minutes, Gendry led the way back to his room, lighting the fire and sconces while Rickon retook his seat on the trunk. He allowed himself to find comfort in present company, laughing as the boys tried to best each other in their tellings of embarrassing stories from Arya’s youth.

It was no surprise that Arya had been a rambunctious child, that she had convinced her governess that her room was haunted, or put sheep dung in Sansa’s shoes. Far from scaring him off, the stories only endeared her to him more. He was glad that she had such a good childhood, and was happy to see that she had not changed overmuch, that she remained unafraid of being herself. Conviction of spirit like that had a great attraction.

In the minutes leading up to midnight, the nerves of the day left him, replaced with eagerness.

“I suppose we should get going. It’s not too icy anymore, but I still prefer to go slow,” Bran said, peaking at his pocket watch again. “We’re meant to be in the Godswood before everyone else.”

We? He thought he’d wait by himself while the Starks got together. The confusion must have shown on his face, because Bran was quick with an answer.

“We thought that you might like us to stand on your side during the wedding.”

“Oh.” It was all that he could think to say, so touched was he by the gesture. All week he had known that his side of the aisle would be empty, but it wasn’t until now that he realized it had troubled him. “Yes, I’d like that a lot.”

He shook both their hands, surprised to find a laugh bubbling in his throat. Suppose that this was what having a family meant.

“Good,” Bran said. Then, after sharing a subtle look with Rickon, he lifted what Gendry had thought to be a thick fur blanket from his lap, revealing it to be a long, stately cloak. It was dark grey, almost black in color, and contrasted with the clasp—a silver direwolf head, freshly polished. “For the cloaking.”

“I thought we weren’t going to do a cloaking,” Gendry mumbled, but it could not be considered a protest when he accepted the soft fur with a gracious nod.

He tried it on, and knew, with pure clarity, that it was the nicest item of clothing he would ever wear. It fell to just the right height and was far warmer than any mere coat. By contrast it would dwarf Arya, but he already knew that it would bring out her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, thumbing at the clasp that sat between his collarbones. He could think of nothing else to say.

“We figured it would be the only cloak Arya would ever consent to have draped over her,” Rickon said with nonchalance, “It was our father’s.” Gendry blinked in surprise, at a loss for words. Somehow the two Stark brothers smiled easily, as if ignorant to how precious he considered this moment.

“We thought it would be a good wedding present,” Bran said. “Are you ready?”

He was.

* * *

Gendry had never been to in a Godswood before. Faith and worship of the Old Gods had diminished generations ago, was mocked in some places and outright persecuted in others. But the North was glacial, steadfast in both memory and faith.

With the eyes of weirwoods on him, Gendry understood why. The trees seemed to whisper, and the snow crinkling underfoot answered back. It was not only a breeze that sent a chill of awareness through him.

“Here,” Bran said when they stood in front of the thickest of the trees. The face that was carved into it was sorrowful, almost agonized, and reminded Gendry that he would one day die. He looked up to avoid its far-seeing gaze. First, the branches of the weirwood bowed and creaked above him; their leaves, bright red and forked, did not fall even in winter. Yet through the gaps he could see the night sky.

Smoke and fog down in King’s Landing meant that the stars were rarely visible. Here, in the open North, it was possible to see the galaxy, purple and blue and white, in a great streak against the night sky, stealing Gendry’s breath as he looked upward. It was older and more vast than even the Godswood. More familiar too.

He breathed the crisp winter air, his breath clouding. Even though the cold pinched his nose he was warm, made warmer still when Rickon struck a match and lit the candles he and Bran held.

After a day of waiting, the minutes it took before Arya arrived felt like no time at all.

The sound of snow crunching. Then the light of three candles. Arya in the middle in the middle of their light, walking towards him.

She wore the flowers he’d bought for her. In starlight they looked like the sky’s palest blue, matching the hue of the opals on her neckline. She was brilliant in the wedding dress that had once been her namesake’s. Mountain rose up from the hemline, etched in silver thread that retained its radiance, even after sixty years of disuse.

She received a kiss on the cheek from her mother and all her siblings, taking enough time to ensure that Gendry’s heartbeat would accelerate into a canter.

Finally someone spoke, Jon or Bran or Catelyn, Gendry didn’t know, only felt the words rush through him.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

“I, Gendry Waters.” The words were soft, and only for Arya. She was breathing quickly, and had eyes only for him.

“And I…Arya Stark.”

He reached out for her, and when she took his hand his vision of her wobbled. He breathed deeply and refused to blink away the tears on his waterline.

“And who stands as witness?”

Gendry didn’t hear who answered, so focused was he on squeezing Arya’s hands so he might offer her numb fingers warmth.

“And do you take one another to wed?”

“I do,” Gendry breathed, heart swelling.

Arya exhaled, the mist of her breath dispelling between them. Her lips were pale with the cold.

“I do,” she whispered, choked with emotion.

His heart thrummed like a harp.

They knelt in the snow to pray, their hands still joined. Gendry did not know what to ask of the Gods, he felt too lucky as it was. He gave thanks, and stood, snow seeping through his trousers.

With sure, untrembling fingers, he removed the cloak from around his neck and fastened it around her shoulders. She traced the direwolf at the center of her chest with one finger and smiled wide at last. He returned it, quiet laughter escaping from low in his chest. They were married now, husband and wife. Then, as he had seen done in every wedding he’d ever attended, he leaned down and kissed her.

Her lips were cold, his likely were too, and the kiss was short due to present company, but it still sent a thrill through Gendry. Anticipation livened his blood.

They parted, and then there were hugs and handshakes and calls of congratulations. Despite the small number of people, Gendry lost sight of Arya as they walked back inside. The warmth within the walls was readily welcomed; without the cloak, the cold struck like a tailor’s pin.

Despite the late hour, Mrs. Stark insisted they all go to the solar for a drink. There was no way to decline, so Gendry accepted a brandy, taking a few polite sips before abandoning the glass in favor of sitting beside Arya.

The rest of the room, blessedly, did not seem to expect their contributions to the conversation.

“You look good,” he told her, then almost cringed at his choice of words. Would it have been so hard to call her beautiful? Gods, but he was thick. And Arya’s tongue was too sharp to allow him an opportunity to correct himself.

“Thanks, so do you.” She smiled into her next sip of liqueur, but he decided to take it as a compliment. “Did Bran and Rickon give you the cloak?”

She fingered the clasp again as he explained the time the three of them had spent together that day.

“I’m glad you got on. I’m sure Jon would have joined you, but I just see him so rarely—”

“—And you wanted to spend time with him, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Arya nodded, looking over to where her cousin was speaking intensely with Sansa.

“You know this was the first time I’d been home in over two years. I’d missed it, I often though about coming back. Being here now though…everything’s different.” She sighed. Her gaze shifted to meet his after a moment. “I suppose circumstances change and you have to change with them.”

She pulled the cloak tightly around her. He was right about it bringing out her eyes.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?”

Arya finished her drink, setting the little goblet down. “I don’t know,” she said at last. It felt unlike her to be so vague, at all unsure of herself. He wanted to push the issue, but was interrupted by the way Mrs. Stark pointedly cleared her throat.

“You do have the marriage license, don’t you Mr. Waters? I think we should sign it and be off to bed.”

He produced the thick sheet of paper, and they gathered round. Arya was the last to sign, more careful with her penmanship than Gendry had suspected her to be. There were their names, side by side, official in every capacity. 

Rickon smothered the fire, and everyone made for bed.

Arya and Gendry were the last to leave. Arm-in-arm in the hallway, they were finally alone. He breathed deeply to calm himself, but felt no need to suppress his smile.

“How do you feel?” He asked, for it was what he wanted to be asked.

Arya considered for a moment.

“Relieved,” she said. “I thought…I thought maybe I’d feel different. Changed. But I don’t, really.”

Just relieved. On their wedding night. His happiness deflated, shrunk so that he might tuck it somewhere out of sight. He didn’t want to share it with her now.

“I was nervous all day,” he confided in her instead.

“Me too.” She smiled. That was enough common ground to make him confident enough to lean down and kiss her again. His hand cupped her cheek, feeling soft whisps of hair under the pads of his fingers. Arya swayed with the kiss, but her lips were still. He tilted his head, hoping to encourage her, to find passion.

Her thumb and forefinger circled his wrist, dragging his hand away from her face. She took a step back.

“I’m tired,” she whispered, then shook her head. “I don’t think we should go to bed together.”

His mouth hung open, lips still tingling from the kiss.

“Why not?”

“…I don’t want to,” she said. She had the decency to look at him as she said it, but Gendry thought he might have preferred it if her eyes fell to the ground instead. Her grey gaze made the rejection all the sharper.

“Alright then.”

His ribs wanted to push through his skin, and not in the eager, anticipatory way from earlier in the evening. It hurt. And made worse by Arya’s silence. He cleared his throat and walked faster. His room was just around the corner, but so was Arya’s.

“Good night, Miss Stark,” he said, facing his door so he could swallow the lump in his throat without having to look at her.

“It’s not Miss Stark,” she whispered. He did not know if the words were for him, but it was as if her voice had caught his feet and tugged him around. Her flinty gaze was sharp and bit into him with the precision of a dart.

“Right,” he said, swallowing again. “Arya. I’m—”

“It’s Mrs. Waters,” she said, sliding the door shut between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regardless of the universe I just think it would be unrealistic for gendry not to cry at his wedding ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (also I tried to upgrade the canon wedding practices to match the times, I'm sure you got that.) 
> 
> In other news: angst. Expect more of it ;)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read/kudosed/commented. I'm not great at responding, but I really appreciate it!


	4. A Return

Gendry and Arya would not have a honeymoon. There had never been a suggestion of one, not with such a rushed wedding and business in King’s Landing being so demanding. Yet privately, Gendry had thought that would share that phase everyone spoke of, sometimes begrudgingly, but more often with a bit of wistfulness. A time of coy smiles and heated eye contact and shared whispers.

Instead of any of that, Gendry woke the day following his wedding and remained alone in his bed. His limbs were weighed down, and he briefly considered taking up the life of a layabout if only so he would not have to face this one day. 

Laziness was not a trait Gendry could abide, however. With no small amount of will, he gained enough positive momentum to ready himself for the day, though he avoided breakfast. Even as his stomach protested, he walked into town again.

Their marriage license was submitted. Gendry’s smile stretched taunt and empty when the clerk winked at him.

The train schedule was posted on a board outside town hall, barely covered by an awning. There was only one train departing for King’s Landing the next day, early in the morning, a quarter past seven. Gendry made his way to the station and bought two tickets, unsure if he was looking forward to the return trip or dreading it. The stilted rail journey he and Arya had shared but a week ago was still fresh in his mind.

His walk back to the sprawling castle was slow. He lingered outside store fronts and doubled back through the narrow blocks he had already tread. The bottoms of his shoes were wearing thin, he confirmed. In a final bid to scrape time off the clock, he allowed his hunger to make him susceptible to the sweet, buttery smell that seemed to ooze from a brick-walled bakery. He stopped and bought some of the pastries Rickon had been eager for the previous day. Gendry indulged in a peach tart as he walked back to Winterfell. The sugar and flour did not totally soothe his mood, but a furrow between his brows that he had not previously registered loosened with each bite.

If their marriage was going to be a point of contention between him and Arya, then they would speak of other things. Arya and he always had plenty to talk about in the past without speaking of their own relationship. They would be civil and friendly, and he would be content with that. Solidifying his resolution, Gendry marched forward to find the Starks.

They had saved him a seat next to Arya. He took it, despite the stuttering awkwardness he felt tumbling in his chest. His steps were measured in the hope that it would conceal his nervousness. 

“I bought us tickets for the 7:15 train tomorrow,” he told Arya as everyone else helped themselves to the pastries. Apparently Arya felt no appetite. “So you’ll most likely want to say your goodbyes tonight.”

She nodded. “I’ve already packed. It will be…good to be back in King’s Landing, even though I will miss everyone here terribly.”

She offered him a smile, though he must have not accepted it with appropriate grace, for her eyebrows winced and the grin dropped.

“We’ll be able to be more ourselves,” she continued. The statement was accompanied with a nod she directed at no one in particular. Arya was seeking to find resolutions within herself too. Even knowing she did not say it for his benefit, he still hoped she was right.

* * *

For all that Gendry had been seeped in anticipation as their train pulled into the station, fearing hours of silence and broken glances, the actual ride was filled with simple conversation and practicalities. Arya had arranged for her things to be delivered to his house and had paid an advance to her old boarding house. She explained it all without regret, as far as Gendry could tell.

With no small amount of trepidation, Gendry suggested they host a dinner over the weekend as a more informal celebration. He had written into the _King’s Landing Chronicle_ the day before to announce their marriage. It would run in Thursday’s issue, and they both would have friends eager to inquire about the news. Better to address them all at once. Arya agreed with gentle enthusiasm.

Following that, they both took to reading the morning news, bought from a newsboy before their departure. When they exchanged editions, Gendry’s _Chronicle_ for Arya’s _Northern Times,_ he did not feel stifled.

* * *

Mrs. Heddle was waiting for them in the foyer when they arrived at his house. Their house.

“Welcome back, sir,” she said with a big grin. “And to you ma’am! We haven’t been formally introduced, I’m Masha Heddle, the housekeeper. I can’t tell you how pleased I was when Mr. Waters told me he was marrying someone so lovely.”

Despite her rampant enthusiasm, she was in fact understating herself. Since she’d come into his employment, she had made at first subtle and then firm comments about his bachelor status in the hope that he might marry and reproduce and offer a job to her niece, a governess. This marriage would keep her from nagging for a month or two.

“It’s nice to meet you too, I’m Arya.”

“Of course you are! You were over for dinner just last month, I remember,” Mrs. Heddle continued with a wink, as if she had seen their marriage coming from a league away. “Of course you know where the front parlor and dining room are, but I would be happy to give you a tour of the rest of the house while your husband deals with the bags. I already have your things arranged upstairs, they arrived from the boarding house just fine.”

“Actually,” Gendry interrupted before Masha could get away from herself. “I was planning on showing her around myself, if you wouldn’t mind taking our things upstairs? They’re not heavy.”

“Oh. Of course, sir. I thought us women would get acquainted, but that won’t be any trouble.”

“Thank you,” he said, ignoring her slight rebuke. Then lowering his voice, though there was little doubt that Arya could still hear him, he asked, “And you set up a separate bedroom for Miss—for my wife?”

“Yes, the one just next to yours, although some of her clothes are in your room, I figured for the next couple of weeks at least you’d be shar—”

“If you could just put her things in her bedroom please.”

The grin that had been living in the corners of his housekeeper’s mouth fell. “That will be no trouble.” She stooped to collect the handles of their luggage, and then said louder, including Arya in the conversation once more, “Don’t forget to show her the garden.”

“Thank you,” Arya said once Mrs. Heddle had made her way upstairs. Gendry dismissed the comment with a brief shrug, not wanting to linger on the topic of their sleeping arrangements.

“Well here’s the back parlor,” he said, ushering Arya into the room where he ate most of his meals. The walls were paneled with a medium color wood up to about the height of his shoulder before being replaced by a pale wallpaper that climbed to the ceiling.

“It suits you,” Arya said, taking in the davenport along the back wall, the table and its four comfortable chairs, the warm rug.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know if I could explain it,” Arya said, inspecting the framed map of the Riverlands that hung above the mantle. The fire had shrunk to embers, but the room remained warm. “It just feels like you.”

Arya’s intuition could be haunting at moments like this. For he spent more waking hours in this room than anywhere else in the house, something she seemed to sense without need for confirmation.

“Yes, well, this is where I spend most of my time. And through this door here is the kitchen.”

Arya was not in the same sort of rush as him. She traced the vines that flared across the wallpaper, stopped to inspect the candelabra that sat on the side table. It was sterling silver, one of his mother’s few prizes.

When her curiosity had been sated, at a time seemingly random to Gendry, she followed him into the kitchen, a room Gendry spent admittedly little time in. His cook, Havish, was taking a smoke break, but stubbed out the cigarette to make his introduction to Arya.

“Better to feed two mouths than one,” he said, his smile charming despite the missing canine, “I have a lovely soup just about ready whenever you want lunch.”

They thanked him, then peaked into the corner where the scullery and linen closet were tucked away, before taking the back door and stepping into the enclosed garden.

It was a bit dreary, being winter, but Gendry knew it did not get much greener in spring. Still, Arya went about inspecting it as if it were the Tyrell’s estate. She lingered near a short statue of the Maiden, left over from the previous owners in the back right corner. Gendry’s negligence in the yard spoke through the crack on her face, which looked as if a falling tear had split her open.

Arya walked an abbreviated loop across the yard, stopping by the gate at the side of the house that led back to the street. It creaked terribly as she pushed it open.

“You’ll need a new padlock for this,” she noted, “It came right off in my hand.”

“Huh,” he said as she passed over the old lock, with its stiff arm, stuck in place.

“You’re not much for the outdoors, then?”

“Can’t say so,” he said, suppressing a shiver as the wind slid across his shoulders. “Hard to be when you’ve lived in this city your whole life.”

Arya nodded, eyes scanning the ground where brown and grey leaves clung together in the shallow places where rainwater collected. Were those supposed to be the flower beds?

“I was outside all the time when I was younger. Absolutely horse mad. I went riding everyday I could.”

Gendry did not know how to ride. He’d hire a carriage if he ever needed to travel a great distance, but generally he walked everywhere. Though that would be harder to do in the North, he supposed, where things were farther apart.

“You could look into buying one, if you wanted,” he suggested, although he knew it was a bit more complicated than that. Horses needed stables and food and care, none of which he knew about acquiring.

“No, no, I haven’t ridden in years. Just a nice memory now. We might go to Stag Park sometime, or Visenya’s Gardens out over the hill, put some appreciation in you.”

He thought of her hand tucked in his arm as they looked at apple blossoms. “That would be nice, when the weather warms.”

Arya let out a light laugh. “It’s hardly cold now.”

In comparison to Winterfell it certainly was not, but without a coat he was still struck with a chill. The wind was picking up, and the garden’s brick walls were not as effective in sheltering them from errant gusts as he would have suspected. Loose tendrils of Arya’s hair flew in front of her eyes, she must have taken off her bonnet at some point. He longed to reach forward and fix it behind her ear. 

“Though I can see the wind has gotten to you. Why don’t you show me the upstairs?”

He blinked to clear away his state of distraction, then nodded and held the door open for her.

Without thinking too much about it, Gendry indicated their respective rooms, but set his sights on the study, the only shared living space on the second floor.

The room felt half-finished, in-set bookshelves sat mostly empty and the liquor cabinet held only plain glass bottles, no decanters or crystal glasses. Gendry had considered purchasing a standing globe or a hanging tapestry but he neither wanted nor needed them, and did not wish to buy a false version of himself.

It was a similar perspective that fueled Gendry’s distaste of the thick sprawling desks that men of class were keen to sit themselves behind. Mott had insisted upon such a desk for his work office when he’d been promoted, but at home Gendry still preferred his small, tight writing desk. It forced him to be neat and organized. Humble too.

A sliver of shock pricked him when he saw another writing desk situated next to his, almost identical in its craftmanship, if of a slightly paler wood.

“Oh,” Arya said, “I also like to sit facing the window.”

Late afternoon sunlight offered the room some much needed brightness and made the stain on the furniture shine.

“It looks over the street, so it can be loud at times, but I still think its nice.”

“It is,” Arya affirmed, moving the drapes further apart so that she might look upon the neighborhood. It was a good neighborhood; saplings were planted along the footpath and the lantern lighter was always timely. Children laughed and played on the street, instead of huddling together under awnings or cupping their hands for alms.

After taking in the view, Arya looked through the drawers of her desk, ensuring her stationary and pens were still intact. 

“Good of Masha to put your desk in here with mine. Odd how they almost match, innit?”

“We both like sturdy, practical things.” She took a step back, standing a breast with him once more, “They look purposeful next to one another, almost matching.”

“Well I’m glad you like it. Feel free to spend as much time in here as you like.” He knew it was improper—the study was a man’s room—but Arya was a librarian, and it would be counterintuitive to exclude her from a place where her expertise could be used. There was a moment of awkward silence in which Arya looked at him as if he were a fruit whose ripeness she could not determine. “Maybe you can buy some books you like to fill up these shelves,” he said, hoping to encourage her.

Arya hummed, inspecting his scant titles. “Yes, I might encourage you to read some fiction. Or gods forbid poetry!”

He knew she was teasing but his nose still crinkled at the thought. A well-spoken sonnet was nice every now and again but once the poets started in with their metaphors and allusions Gendry found their writing near incomprehensible, and himself stupid by association.

“They’re not all about love you know,” Arya said with newfound sincerity, misinterpreting his expression of distaste. “Many of the modern poets can be quite macabre.”

She would like that. He smiled. “Well then buy a volume or two. Truthfully I’m not one for any kind of reading, but if you enjoy it you should have it.”

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t spend your money on something you dislike. I’ll use my own salary, now that I don’t have to rent,” Arya said. “You spend your earnings on hobbies you enjoy, you’d be better off. I’ve found that some of the most well-read men are actually very dull. Or they have no ideas of their own.”

“Ah, well that would be suicide in my profession.”

Arya smiled and held the door for him as they went back out into the hallway.

“So what’s next?”

“Oh that’s all,” he said. “We could have lunch?”

“Well then what’s through that door?”

“The attic. It serves as Masha’s room.”

“And here?” Arya asked, already reaching for the doorknob to the room across the hall to her own.

“A…guest room?”

By technicality that was true, but labeling it as such would have been a confused sentiment. Arya saw that for herself, her eyebrows raising as she took in the wallpaper, dotted with sparrows and kittens playing with balls of yarn. She stood in the center and did a slow turn while he lingered in the threshold. There was not much to take in, no furniture except an old toy chest, the wooden menagerie he had loved so much as a boy tucked inside it for safekeeping.

“Well your room was the guest room. This is—”

“A nursery.”

“Yes, but it could be made a guest room easily enough.”

“You’ve kept it empty this long?”

He had no use for the room when he had moved in, but no desire to change it either. He shrugged in placid acknowledgement. Arya’s question had been rhetorical, but she still considered his nonverbal answer for a long moment.

“Did you—Do you want children?”

“Well yes. Of course I’d like a family.” Arya bit her lip. “Someday,” he added, realizing he might be putting undue pressure on her. “Do you?”

She sighed. “Why don’t we have lunch?”

* * *

He attempted to brush off Arya’s brusque dismissal of him. But he ate his soup in near silence, unable to engage with Arya and Havish’s charisma.

They spent the rest of the afternoon alone. Arya went to speak to Masha while Gendry attempted to distract himself by catching up on his correspondence. He had never written to a museum before, and agonized for drawn out minutes on looking up addresses and choosing which fancy words to use. Tomorrow he’d send off the bundle of inquires in the post.

That night he and Arya shared dinner with Masha, who kept casting them suspicious glances before stepping in to overtake the conversation and direct it towards planning the dinner they would host later in the week.

The return home felt both normal and completely new. Arya, sitting across from him, both familiar and unknowable. For every moment that she met his eye with a smile, there was another instance in which her head tilted away.

The day spent travelling had exhausted him, yet he failed to sleep easy.

* * *

He went to the workshop early on Monday, hoping to spend the extra hour in the morning catching up with the expense ledgers and the inventory catalogue. Instead he walked into his office, an untidy space he was still trying to become accustomed to, and found Mr. Mott sitting at the cluttered desk, his reading glasses somewhat askew from the way his palm was bracing the side of his head as he bent over a stack of letters.

“There you are,” he said, his voice gruff from the infliction of his chronic cough. He stood, faster than a man with a bad back probably should have, and beckoned Gendry closer.

He was set ill at ease by his employer’s presence. Mr. Mott was the proprietor of the workshop and had full right to be there as he pleased, but his recent decline in health made his visits rare, and planned well in advance.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“I swear you couldn’t have picked a worse week to go off and get married,” he said with a shake of his head. Then he paused, seeming to hear himself. “You have my congratulations. I take it you’re both happy?”

“Yes, thank you,” Gendry replied, more as a reflex of civility than because of any truth in the words.

“Well you were while it lasted. C‘mere, read this.”

The letter was printed on thick stationary, the words distant and proud, crafted by the buttons of a typewriter rather than a man’s thoughtful hand. It was briefer than Gendry would have assumed based off of Mott’s severeness.

 _Mr. Tobho Mott,_

_It is with regret that we are informing you that Lannister Savings and Loan will be pulling out any current investment in Mott’s Workshop for Crafting and Inventing and will not approve loans in the future. Due to a conflict of interest with other business ventures, Lannister Savings and Loan believes that it can no longer finance the ventures of your company. We wish you the best of luck in your endeavors._

_Sincerely,_

Kevan Lannister _, Senior Manager_

_and_

Tywin Lannister _, Senior Board Member_

It was short enough to be bitingly insulting.

“Those bastards. ‘Conflict of interest’? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means they had a bone to pick and decided to drop us with the easiest excuse on hand.” Mott plucked the letter from Gendry’s hand and threw it on the desk where its pristine cream edges contrasted the scuffed grain of the wood. “What did you say to Lannister at that dinner?”

“Exactly what you told me,” Gendry said, trying to file through his memories from that night only to find that they were all blotted out by the feeling of holding Arya’s hand as she accepted his proposal. “Though I did leave…quite abruptly.” Without thanking his hosts. Was his rude break in manners reason enough to pull out investments like that? Guilt and frustration thickened his breath.

Mott huffed and Gendry straightened his spine in expectation of a reprimand, but Mott just slumped forward, bracing his elbows on the desk as he held his forehead in hand. He cursed, then sighed.

“Do we have any outstanding expenses?”

Gendry thought for a moment. “Nothing major, but I’ll need to double check.”

“Alright, you square everything away. No purchases made until this is straightened out, don’t buy a single screw.” He sighed. “I need to figure out how much we still owe them from the last loan, we might have to delay everyone’s pay till next week.”

Gendry agreed, but Mott’s mind was far away. “…Made to grovel like a dog,” he muttered, back turned to Gendry as he collected his coat.

“You’re going to go beg them to take us back?”

Mott’s face was grim, his brow now a constant furrow.

“This isn’t a time for stubborn pride, Gendry. This is business, you need to know when to fold. I’ll find out what they want and we’ll do it.”

Hot anger collected on Gendry’s tongue as Mott walked out. Now was just the time for stubborn pride, they didn’t need those rich pricks the quality of their work would speak for itself, then pay for itself in turn. Gendry snatched the letter and crumpled it up. Always there were the men who wanted to step on anyone smaller than them, burn up anyone who challenged them.

After taking a deep breath, he channeled his anger into balancing out the ledgers with strict focus. He continued even as the other men arrived, offering each other semi-jovial shouts before the sounds of machinery began to purr.

An hour or so later, with no small amount of dread, Gendry closed the ledger book and stepped out onto the workshop floor.

The workshop was vast, a line of steel pillars supporting the ceiling ran down the center of the room. They reflected light from the tall, slopped windows on both the east and west facing walls, ensuring there was natural light no matter the time of day. Grey and black contraptions meant to drill holes and smelt metal and weave threads were scattered across the wooden floor. Yet the workmen spotted Gendry without issue.

“There you are, Gendry you ass!” Devan Seaworth exclaimed, weaving his way over to meet him. Lommy, Anguy, and Tom were not far behind him. “Who do you think you are, running off to get married and only telling Old Mott.”

“Bit of a spur of the moment thing, really,” he said as his friend slapped him on the back. In the stress of the morning Gendry had nearly forgotten his absence and the reason for it. With an effort, Gendry contrived an easy manner.

“Ah sure,” Devan said, dropping his mock afront for earnestness. “But you and Miss Arya make a right splendid couple. Matter of time really, I knew you two would end up together.”

Gendry feigned a laugh. “How do you figure?”

“Ah, don’t be coy, that’s your wife! I’ve seen you making eyes at her for the past few months. Smart of you to always sit her beside you when you have us over,” Tom interjected with a wink. “And good thinking running off like you did, not having to bother with a chaperone.” There was another insinuating nudge.

“We hardly ran off,” he began before shaking his head. That was not important at the moment. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss his marriage with these men, especially when they would expect details that he could not provide. Better to tell them about the pay delay now, the longer he dallied the angrier they’d be.

They took it as well as he expected them to, meaning extremely poorly. He downplayed the seriousness of the Lannisters’ withdrawal so as not to cause undue distress, but that did not stop the yelling or complaints that he did not have the temperament to calm. The only saving grace in the whole affair was that there were so few men under Mott’s employment to begin with.

The rest of his day was unproductive to a staggering degree. A brick wall was stacked in his mind whenever he attempted progress on his own projects, and any attempt to help the other men was met with snide dismissal. They all happily accepted his invitation to dinner on Friday, though it did little to lighten the mood as he had hoped.

By tomorrow their attitudes would improve, a night’s sleep would allow them to see that they shouldn’t shoot the messenger, but for that afternoon each hour dragged.

His walk home allowed him some clarity. He thought it would be nice to speak to Arya about it. Talking about your day was a spousal activity, but it was a friendly one as well, one she would not begrudge him. Perhaps she’d have some good advice.

He slumped into the davenport in the back parlor, allowing himself a moment to decompress and loosen his cravat. With absent curiosity, he noted that Arya wasn’t there. No matter, she was likely upstairs.

She surprised him by coming in from the kitchen door, a pink flush of exertion in her face, hair in disarray. It was a very becoming look on her. Gendry sat up straighter and swallowed thickly, suppressing his own salaciousness.

“Were you in the garden?” Yet again she wasn’t wearing gloves, and he could see dirt collected on her nailbeds and streaked across her apron.

“Yes,” she said with anger he knew not the cause of. “I cleared away all the dead leaves and pulled up a criminal number of weeds. You’d think they wouldn’t be able to grow in this weather, and yet.” Each word she spoke toppled over the next, but the grimace on her face suggested she didn’t wish to speak on the subject at all.

“That must have taken ages,” he said slowly, not wanting to spook her from whatever mood had put her so close to a precipice.

“Just about all day.” She was smacking her hands against her apron now, the curt tone of her voice mixing with a certain fidgetiness.

“Well done, then.” He cleared his throat. “Wait, why weren’t you at the library?”

“Because I was fired this morning!” she burst out with bitter heat.

He flinched, her message setting him aback.

“What? That’s ridiculous! Just because you missed a week of work?”

Truthfully, Gendry had seen people laid off for less, but the college wasn’t an industrious place like the factories he had worked in during his youth, where you were expected six days a week regardless of your health or important family occasions.

“It was because of _why_ I missed a week of work.” He could see her cold frustration in the furrow of her brow and the pinch of her lip. She was positively burning with anger even if she did not raise her voice as he did.

“Because you got married?”

She shot him a glare, and she didn’t have to say a word for him to know that she was calling him stupid.

“Because we ‘ _eloped,’’_ ’ she said with mocking sarcasm.

It had occurred to him, the morning of their marriage, that it would appear to others that they had eloped. He had thought they might be the victims of a few snide comments, but not from anyone whose opinion mattered. Never had he thought it might cause Arya to lose her job.

“It was hardly an elopement,” he muttered, and gave a quick shake of his head before continuing, “And even if it was, why does—"

“Because they think I’m pregnant!” She burst out. “And married women with children don’t get to work at colleges!”

Oh. Well that would be the more likely reason for an uncourting couple to run North and make a hasty marriage without telling nearly anyone. But it wasn’t true.

“But…you’re not,” he said, trying not to think of her firm rejection of him. “A few months would be enough to see that.”

“Oh, you’re such a man!” she said. “It wouldn’t matter that I’m not pregnant _now_ they would just assume I would be soon enough, and then I would leave to take care of my children and never come back, because that’s _all_ I could ever want.” She was crying angry tears now, scrubbing at them the moment they emerged and turning away from him as if embarrassed. She gasped for breath, and for a moment Gendry felt a truly horrible husband. Wanting to kick himself, he rose, and she allowed him to take her hand. She still wouldn’t look at him though. He guided her to the couch and sat her down, stroking his thumb against the back of her hand as she caught her breath. With a thick swallow she continued, “They’ve gotten rid of me now, so I don’t have to inconvenience them later. That’s why they never would have promoted me.”

Gendry felt properly chastised. In a hundred years, Arya’s plight never would have crossed his mind. He thought their marriage would have only happy consequences.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She squeezed his hand. “All those people you work with are idiots if they don’t want you.”

“None of it’s your fault,” Arya said. Except his ignorance.

“Did you know this would happen?”

She shuddered through a wet sigh. “I hoped it wouldn’t, but, yes, I suspected it would.”

And she had married him anyway. Sacrificed her own happiness for her family’s. She was such an incredible woman.

“Well you’ll find somewhere else, somewhere better,” he encouraged. “The Royal Museum, or the public library. Or you could be a student, get a university degree.”

Blackwater University had started accepting female students twelve years ago, but attendance in each class year rarely numbered higher than the single digits. Arya was smart enough for it though, and unlikely to be cowed by male peers.

“No, I wouldn’t want to rely on your money like that. I’ll-I’ll find work somewhere else. I still have good references, it should not be too hard.” Her words were confident, but he could see doubt chipping away at her.

“I’m sure you will.”

“I might spend the rest of the week cleaning up the garden first. The dirt won’t mind if I snap at it.” She exhaled, the traces of her tears dissipated, and her anger cooled to a simmer. “How was your day?”

He almost laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More plot! As always I'd love to hear what you think and thanks for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly have a plan with this story, but I'm really more experimenting with my style and tone, so I'd love to hear what you think, thanks for reading!


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